white as frozen custard

First off, I'm back in Maryland, so this is all a look over my right shoulder. And I'm alive, so you can rest easy. I added pictures to things that needed pictures, starting with Los Angeles Is Cool. And I also added text here and there, so things aren't exactly the same. I'm not saying you need to reread everything, but, you know. If there's a photo it probably jogged my memory and I wrote something alongside it.

Where did I leave off? Oh, Las Cruces, banana splits in the hotel room.

The next morning I drove north. Here's the road there. They tested missiles and bombs and the like in the area.






I went to White Sands National Monument. Maybe not a surprise, but the sands are blinding, cream of wheat, Irish skin, when-doves-cry WHITE.

And as soft as a kitten. By this point my digital camera was no longer working. Sand in the lens, we figured. I bought some disposable cameras, made a promise to myself to not be stingy with film. Even still, it's a colossal disappointment.

Mostly because CVS tried their best to guess what I'm thinking. What a popular sport around these parts. So they made the white sands into yellow sands. I tried to fix the colors, but I don't own photoshop, and I have very few skills to speak of, so I did my best. As a result the white sands are a few different shades of white. Better photos can be found at the wikipedia article on the place.



Looks like I'm having fun! And that none of my clothes fit quite right?

I rented a sled from the gift shop. Actually, I bought one for $15, and if you keep your receipt they let you return it for $5. It's a ripoff, but you're helpless, because when in your life are you ever going to sled down white sand dunes?

The park is small but the hills make it feel spacious. Even when it was full of people, there was no problem finding an isolated hill to go down. I started small, on a little hill, but quickly learned that the steep hills were nothing to be afraid of. Steeper the better.

Walking through the dunes is tiring. When I was trekking up another hill, wondering whether my lack of breath was an accurate reflection of my health, a man on a motorcycle, about 50 yards away, asked me to pretend I was sledding so he could take a picture. Never mind that I was not really on top of a hill. I complied. Then he waved and drove away.

I continued. Imagine using a stairmaster in the desert--except the stairmaster is made out of soft, depthless sand. I got tired very quickly. I lay down to make a sand angel. I went down the dunes about 3 times. Seriously, that was all I could manage.

Later I went back to my car and discovered that my keys weren't in my pocket. So, awesome, they were somewhere in the desert. I was sure they were already five feet under the sand, buried by the wind. I calmly retraced my steps and they were in the spot where I collapsed and made a sand angel.

Not everyone rented a sled. One family just told the kids to rough it.



That little boy with his legs curled up in the air? I felt so bad for him. So when he came back up the hill I said, "You can borrow my sled if you take a picture of me when you're at the bottom. Deal?" He nodded in the way I imagine little boys do when talking to strange older women.



I wrote some postcards in the car. Then drove to nearby Alamogordo, where I could not find any atomic glass, though it was the only thing my dad asked me to bring back. I did get another banana split, though, from the same local chain that made the previous night's split. And I got my oil changed. While I waited I took a walk and did some word puzzles on a bench. A man asked me what I was doing and I told him the truth. It didn't seem to please him and he walked away, shaking his head.

What I should have done was waited inside the auto place, because they were showing Raiders of the Lost Ark, and I already watched a Harrison Ford movie earlier on the trip. I should have continued the trend.

I have no idea why I took this picture, but here it is:



Maybe it just seemed nice, somehow, that sad little American flag. The road out of Alamogordo, headed east, started in an environment that was the New Mexico I was used to. But then I climbed higher and higher through the mountains and trees started appearing. I went through lonely towns.

Near Elk, NM, I saw a lump on the side of the road and thought it was a hobo at first. But then it moved and ran across the road and I saw it was an elk! I didn't get a picture because I was too focused on not hitting it.

Then the land flattened out. I still felt like I was high up, somehow. I got that feeling sometimes in the West--I would be on a very flat space and still I was certain that I was on top of a plateau and that at any minute I would get to the edge and see a steep road leading down, towards the rest of the world below. Never happened. I did see a beautiful sunset that night, though. I felt at peace.



Here's a failed attempt to take a picture of a group of cows, to prove that they really do look like bears, sometimes.



Now that I'm back a handful of people have asked me, in some variation, if I found myself, or if I searched the entirety of my soul. I'm not really sure that I wanted to explore my soul on this trip. It's hard to say what I wanted. In my head the trip made such perfect sense that I often got frustrated with my inability to explain it to other people.

Here's another attempt. I just had the feeling that something more was out there. I wasn't looking for the meaning of life, or looking for something to give shape to my life. I just wanted to see what I already suspected was out there. It was as if I had already visited it all, but so long ago I barely remembered it, and I wanted to revisit and see things that would trigger long lost memories. If that makes a scrap of sense.

The East is very crowded and you go from one shopping plaza to another. Sometimes you go through little forests, and that's a nice feeling. But I imagined that the West was full of these big, open spaces that would take my breath away and replace it with an awesome peace. I was right. Seeing things was great, monuments and mountains and towns, but the spaces left the biggest impression on me.

I slept in Carlsbad, which is probably a great town if you want to go to the caverns. Otherwise, it's sort of a wasteland. I went to walmart for dinner, and bought three of my favorite items, to make up for the sort of lame motel I stayed in: Stouffers mac and cheese, a mango, and Little Debbie strawberry shortcake rolls. The latter are artificial and superdelicious, but I did once eat so many that it did prompt me to become a vegan for two weeks, a trial-run thing that I hoped would flush out my system of whatever is in those devilish little rolls.

cactus instead of moss

When I sleep in my car my breath condenses inside, and my sleeping bag becomes wet and cold. There's a certain smell that is always the same but which I could never begin to describe.

I drove to Tucson, up and through roads that have no business being roads. Upright cactus every few feet, some held up with pieces of wood. I saw a mountain covered with the cactus, and then I saw more. I took a breath and I did think, this is why I came, I think.

I did a long stopover at a rest stop. I've become fond of highway rest stops. I brush my teeth and wash my face. I sit in my car and put on a little face powder, not because I'm a vain little belle; my powder has spf 15, and my face has taken on a tan that is both beguiling and unforgiving on my skin.

I drove up towards the Phoenix area looking for an In-n-Out. I read about one in Chandler, AZ. Oh, and I stopped at a CVS to buy a disposable camera. Sad to put the digital away, though occasionally I still turn it on to see how it's doing and nod in disappointment when it reports that yes it still has a lens error or some other eye infection.

In Chandler, AZ, I sat in a parking lot under a small amount of shade and talked to Wylie on the phone for an hour. Meanwhile the sweat collects in the small of my back. Then I got my double-double burger at In-N-Out and a Neapolitan shake (all three flavors), a secret menu item. I found a radio station in Chandler, AZ, that seemed to only play T.I. and 50 Cent, all right with me.

I wanted to visit the world's smallest museum in Superior, Arizona, but it was closed. Next time. I did go to the Bryce Thompson Arboretum State Park, which sounds dorky, but that's one of the beauties of traveling alone. You can indulge your dork. The park is quite nice, lots of lonely, secluded paths that in the East might prompt caution. But since I was the youngest person there by about 40 years, I wasn't worried. The park was selling cactus, and I bought one. Tiny. Stayed in my trunk the rest of the trip.



And here is a fairly horrible picture of a hummingbird.



And a much better picture of the desert section of the park.



They had a tropical palm section, and yes, I did miss Florida a little. Hummingbirds were everywhere, as were the elderly. I kept my camera out of use, for some reason. It was a beautiful day, and I wanted to just take it in.

The road to Tucson was another ridiculous mountain road. I drove in 3rd gear. They had something I'd never seen before, and something that qualifies as the day's Most Frightening Thing on the Road. It was a sign that said "Runaway Truck Area Ahead." Then the road branched and a big stretch of sand, like the long jump pit -- if the long jump was 60 feet. I guess if you are a truck and the steep downgrade is too much and your brakes fail, the state highway system has a plan: just steer along, keep calm, and then veer off into this giant sand pit. But, really, the phrase "Runaway Truck"?? Great and terrifying.

In Tucson I got to play the "If my life had gone a different way" game. I was accepted into the U of AZ writing program and didn't go. But of course spent much time thinking how things might be different. People I wouldn't have met, for better or worse, whether the dry air would have been better for my mood than the wet. How I would have done without spanish moss.

Tucson was a city I planned on visiting. When I got there it was empty. I parked and walked by some houses with homemade lawn ornaments, signs on the porches about parking, cats everywhere, music and incense and cactus flowers. And I parked my car for a second to look at the book, and I suddenly heard "I'm Proud to be an American" coming from behind, and THIS drove by me:



Which, if you can't tell, is a man wearing a cowboy hat, driving a Rascal with a flag on the back of it. And music was playing from somewhere.

I stayed at the hostel in Tuscon. I met another girl doing the same kind of trip as me. Instead of books, though, she raised money by selling her expensive yoga clothes. She was going northish, aroundish, towardish yellowstone.

I wanted to make cookies so I went to the best-named grocery store in the city, FOOD CITY. A mexican grocery store, too, so next to the Ramen noodles are 50 different kinds of garbanzo beans.

I bought cactus again. Delighted to think I could try and cook it again, after my last attempt was doused in gasoline. I bought one cactus pad, one container of shredded oaxaca cheese, one container of pico de gallo (heavy on the cilantro), one pack of little flour tortillas. Altogether it was delicious. The cactus has got punch, sort of lemony but very green. Here's my cactus soft taco. The green strips are cactus.



Then I made my oatmeal cookies and that may have gained me some friends.

One friend I did not make was the older lady sharing our room. She went to bed at 9 pm when the other 4 girls in the room were still up, coming and going and getting things from our bags. Old lady rolled around and groaned when we made noise. She was on the top bunk, so was I. We were alone up in the stratosphere and by the time I hoisted myself in she was nearly hoarse from the theatrics. Oh to be put out by these young assholes!

I thought she was an alcoholic, because, why is anyone with a full head of gray hair in a hostel? But in the morning she was talking (about young people, politics, and the spirit, and our lack) and I understood that she wasn't an alcoholic, she was just an aggressively self-righteous new age hobo.

Days are a mix

The man at the Honda dealership directed me to a body shop where they could better look at my car. He even printed out directions, so, thank you, man with your Honda button down tucked into your khakis.

The directions led me to a main drag in San Diego, not downtown, but where lots of things were happening. The body shop had four or five broken down cars in the parking lot, but it looked fine. By broken down, I mean totally dismantled. The man was super friendly. I did my best to articulate what felt wrong in my car. We took it for a test drive. I sat on top of piles of maps and discarded In-n-out straw wrappers.

The drive was enjoyable and I was surprised that I didn't feel as shy as I usually do. He said the car was fine, and what I was probably feeling was a change in the shape of the car. Specifically, the bumper is a little lower and pushed out on the sides, by like 1/2 inch. Also there is a small gap where the hood meets the car, but he assured me the hood would not fly up. He looked at the engine, looked at the tires, and declared it all right. He charged me nothing, said I looked like a smart girl, and shook my hand the way I imagine men shake hands.

I drove with a renewed sense of purpose. I visited Balboa park, which is a gigantic urban park, housing musuems, sculpture gardens, exhibits, the San Diego Zoo, fields, trees, gardens, restaurants, and thousands of school children wearing matching shirts. One group of children had tags around their necks, like, furniture tags on cotton string. Love it.

Parking is free, the trolley around the park is free, and so is the botanical garden that I had read about. It supposedly had an amazing orchid exhibit. But it was closed on Thursdays, so I had to settle for a picture of the exterior.



Here's a sign to ponder. "Don't Abandon/Dump Any Animals in the Pond." What is the slash there for? Is it possible to dump but NOT abandon an animal in the pond? Like, if I took my pet fish to Balboa Park and dumped him in with the intention of picking him up later? Someone wrote this sign. Someone thought about what to write.



I did visit the museum of photographic arts, which was empty and great. I do love good photos, especially since I can't take them. Here is one, and I hope posting it isn't illegal. It's called "Sea of Hats"



When I visited the rose garden, I found it difficult to get "I Never Promised You a Rose Garden" out of my head. Then I went to the desert garden and had to wrestle out the mutated version I invented: "I Never Promised You a Succulent Garden." Desert plants are creepy, and I took some photos, as well as a brief video.



My brief video tour of the succulent garden.


The rose garden was lovely, as expected, and some of the names are better than the flowers.



And here is a brown recluse spider, one of the thousands I saw on my journey.


The free trolley featured a wonderful, lively, androgynous driver named Kathy. She told us all about the history of the park. I got in my car and drove east, eastbound and down, homeward, through the mountains. The views were absurd.



Here is a woman walking a sheep. Hello!


I took a detour to Julian, CA, a weird old westerny town that is famed for its apples. A recommended bakery served a crazy delicious slice of apple cherry crumb pie.

The main drag through Julian. And a specialty store!


Cats, cats, cats and more? What possibly more could you offer? OR NEED?

The detour to Julian went on a winding road upwards, and though I felt comfortable with my car, I did not feel comfortable speeding on turns posted as 15 mph. A black pickup full of Mexican teenagers tailed me the entire way down the mountain. I talked to them as I drove. "Boys, I am not speeding here. I am going to fly off the road. I know it's possible. You'll just have to hold on. I know you want to add a few inches to your manhoods. You'll have to find another way." They didn't and instead passed me, on a double yellow, on a tight curve around a mountain, going at least 50 mph. I had some brief high horse fantasies involving coming across their crashed pickup and dialing 911. Yes, I am standing here at the crash site, no one looks seriously injured, though I can confirm that they are not smart people, even for teenagers, and you may need to slap their parents in the face."

One of the mountain roads to Julian, up so high. The woman who gave me pie assured me that the town was not on fire. It was just a cloud.





Happy chug a lug, and then right at the exit for Jacumba, CA, my muffler fell off, solid gold.

A gas station was less than 500 feet away. I stood there thinking about what to do. Parked across the street was a tow truck, and the driver just sat there. I walked up to him and said, "Hi, my muffler just fell off. I was going to call AAA." He said, "I have a call I gotta go to. Here's my business card. Call AAA and give them this number." The card was black around the edges with car oil. Okay, so, let me get this straight? You have a call to make and the reason you're sitting at a gas station is?

I called AAA and the nicest girl I have ever spoken to got me a tow truck, the very same company. I hoped whoever they dispatched would not be sitting idly somewhere, killing time. The tow truck came quickly and the man let me push the lever, the one that pulls my car up onto the ramp, while he held my muffler up into place.



We had an awkward ride, 45 miles to El Centro. We listened to pop music, so let me be the one to tell you the oddness of riding with a man who does not know where Baltimore is while lisitening to the Fray and Beyonce.

He took me to an Econo Lodge where the parking lot was full of pickup trucks equipped to carry sheets of glass, you know how they look. The man at the register was unnecessarily creepy--like I could tell he was amping it up. Why do old men do that? I even wore my hoodie and stuck my neck out like a raptor, so I would be less attractive (damn my good looks). It was nighttime, so I washed my filthy feet and went to bed.

You are cool in Los Angeles

On the way to Los Angeles:

Lake Havasu


Terrible.


Sunset near the Arizona/California border


In the morning Adam ran through a list of things we could do. But quickly we got on the same wavelength when I admitted I was perfectly happy to do nothing and eat burgers.

In-N-Out specifically. The best fast food restaurant in the nation, the universe. The menu is simple, but if you know how, you can order from the secret menu. For instance. Ordering something "animal style" makes it extra delicious. They put it on the receipt, too, and if I find the means I will get that receipt up here. Adam and I went to In-N-Out twice in one day. Thankfully the crew had changed. Here is food from In-N-Out:



We did do touristy-resembling things. We went to the Santa Monica pier. Adam drives his car quickly and with confidence. And he was especially forgiving of my gasps and shrieks. Then:

the beach. Adam was talking on his phone and I wanted a picture of that. For some reason I didn't. I got distracted.


me standing in the Pacific ocean. Posture rather like a shocked penguin.


pinkberry frozen yogurt


people watching



leaning on the railing over the pier and talking


a tour through town, including backalleys


this sign. When we passed this, Adam calmly pointed at it, then said something pithy, like, "welcome to California."


Okay here's what I thought about Los Angeles: It was sort of like if everyone at my middle school moved together and founded a town. That's the sort of feeling. I don't know if that makes any sense. Everyone thought that they were being watched; and they were all watching. I remember being in middle school and thinking as I took my tray up to the trash can that everyone was watching my every move. Then I went home and my mom called me out on it; she said, "Honey, no one cares."

Well, Los Angeles cares. The sunglasses, the black leggings, the drink in your hand. Everyone was sitting and waiting for the director to yell, Action.

Whoops

The library here in New Mexico is about to close. This computer sucks. I will update later on:

Louisiana
a failed attempt to camp
a successful attempt to camp
Witness, starring Harrison Ford
Texas
a successful attempt at smalltalk in Texas
the end of the world in Dallas
western cliches come true

The man at the computer next to me reeks of soap and is probably drunk. But he did echo my sentiments:

Soap: Man it is weird today.
Me: How so?
Soap: It's really slow!
Me: I know, it is! It is slow.
Soap: It's like a woman with a headache. Don't ask me for anything! Ha ha!
Me: [genuine laughter]

grown up stuff

Oxford was fine. I had a different idea of what it would be, I think, but this is also true of most things in my life. The motel was a little shady and in the morning a man with a shopping cart in the parking lot asked me if I had a good night's sleep. Later I learned he was the cleaning man. Okay.

Oxford has a nice independent bookshop, and I bought there the new Mary Robison book. I asked/told the cashier, "She taught here, didn't she?" though I knew the answer. It was my attempt at small talk. She seemed to see through it, and she did not help me out. Being in a car is a bit isolating. When I told Wylie I was worried about getting lonely in the car, he said something about travellers attracting other travellers. I don't know; it sounded good at the time. But as I am already 1.5 weeks into my trip, I'll tell you, I think it's a little different. I have noticed that Wylie is one of those people that strangers like to start conversations with. I know this from when we would go to the grocery store late at night and crazy people would talk to him about, whatever, Hotwheels or ice cream. They never talk to me. Which is fine, about 98% of the time.

Then when I talk to the cashier at the bookstore she looks over me, not at me, like over my shoulder, like she was looking for a hidden camera, like maybe she was on a prank tv show, or maybe like she was looking for someone like Wylie to talk to. Well, a drunk Scotsman once told me I had a pleasing face, and I believe that. (For Rebecca: "My friends say I have intriguing eyes").

And so, the cleaning man with the shopping cart says hello, but those are niceties. Tonight I hope to stay at a hostel in Santa Fe, so I will make a concerted effort to talk to people in a natural fashion.

I don't remember what I was thinking when I set off, or what I had in mind. I got on some road that started big and then became small. It was an extraordinarily windy day and when I filled up for gas I imagined I looked cool and windswept, but I probably did not.

I stopped at Clarksdale, Mississippi, to get a picture of the crossroads.



The crossroads is where a young man sold his soul to the devil for the ability to shred guitar. The restaurant recommended to me by hipster guidebook was closed; a nearby place was also closed but they said they could give me food. It went like this.

I walked into the restaurant and everyone looked at me. There are some places where you will always stand out, either because it's a small town, or because you are wearing a miniskirt in Mississippi, or because you walked into a restaurant at 2:30 pm when everyone knows that's no time for a meal. "Are you still serving food? Or is there a place around here that is?" I asked. I tried to be casual, not smarmy or touristy or cutesy, but I probably was all three. "Grill's closed," a skinny man in a hunting hat said. "But he can fix you up something. Can't you?" This he directed to a tall black man who looked really scared to see me. I repeated myself and added, "I've been driving all day and I'm starving."

Hunting hat said, "We can't have anyone starving." Scared man said he could get me something and he disappeared into the kitchen. I was to follow. Is this against some sort of code? In the fridge room he shows me a shelf. I have never been in the fridge room, but isn't this where they murder people? No bodies, just tubs of things on the shelf. "Where are you from?" I said, "I'm from Baltimore." "Oh, okay. I'm Terrell." "I'm Liz." "Hi Liz, this is chicken salad, and this is egg olive, or, something else, what do you think?" I got a drink from the fountain while he made my chicken something. This time, unsweetened plus fruit punch. I was proud of myself. But it was actually grosser than sweet tea, if you can imagine.

While I waited another man said to Hunting Hat, "So I heard you were on tv last night?" He laughed and nodded. And did not elaborate. I paid and left such a big tip that a woman working there yelled after me that I forgot my change. Outside another man said goodbye. He asked if there was anything else I needed help with. "No, just passing through. Wanted to see the crossroads." "That ain't the real crossroads!" "What?" "The real crossroads is by old 49. Did you go under the train on the bridge?" "Yeah." "It's around there." "What does it look like?" "Oh nothing. It's just grown-up stuff now."

Whatever that means. I thought about it for the next 40 minutes.

The chicken salad had egg in it. And they gave me pickle slices which delighted me to no end. So happy that pickles still exist in the south.

For good measure, here's a possible contender for Most Frightening Thing on the Road:



It wouldn't have been so scary if it hadn't been creeping along at 5 mph and making a sound like a trash compactor filled with wolves.

A motel to avoid, if possible

The mint lemonade was one of my best ideas, ever. Wylie will agree. Ten minutes before I left I realized I had no pictures of Gainesville so I took this of Wylie sweeping his porch. Actually I thought it was a picture but it was a video, because I can't quite work the camera.



I ended my stay in Gainesville with a plate of huevos asheros from my favorite good-timey old family restaurant, The Top. But I didn't get on the road until 4 or so, and then I took some amazing backcountry roads instead of 75 (which might actually be worse than 95, only for the constant "DISNEY WORLD COUPONS...FREE OJ!!!" billboards. This is all to say that it got dark really quickly and I wasn't close to Macon, GA, my next planned stop.

But here is a beautiful road going through an idyllic small town.



The AAA camp book said there was a good camping site in Anderson, GA, near a Civil War memorial, but to get there, I'd have to take some lonely farm roads in the dark. Now listen. I never got lost, never. I always knew where I was.

But it all took longer than I thought, and by the time I reached the CLOSED camp site, I was almost out of gas. Well, all right. I kept on, hoping for either gas or lodging. I found lodging first at the Budget Inn in Montezuma, GA.

I won't say how much I actually paid, because it shames me, but I can say how much the room should have cost: $8. The sheets had some impressive cigarette holes, there was tape around the bathtub. And the trashcan said "Holiday Inn." I'd love to know the story behind that.

Here is a picture of a secret door that was in the closet, and by closet, I mean a large recess in the wall sectioned off with a curtain on a rope.



And here is a picture of the kitchenette. I didn't use it, but its existence was the only reason I valued my room at $8 and not $3. It was greasy and the stovetop had saucers on the burners. Is that a southern thing?



I did not sleep well, but it wasn't because my sleeping bag was way too hot or because I was worried about being attacked. It was because the motel was 20 feet away from the train tracks and a train went by at least twice an hour, throughout the night. And also everytime I heard a car start up I was convinced someone was stealing my car. In hindsight that was a silly worry, because there was NO ONE AROUND FOR MILES AND MILES.

The next morning the motel manager shook my hand when I checked out. I didn't have the heart to tell him I fantasized about burning his establishment to the ground.

first day

I think the first day deserves some attention. It certainly was awkward enough. I got on the road and almost immediately said to myself, "What in the hell am I doing?"

I hope later it'll feel more like second-nature.

I went for the Outer Banks. I know this of it.

1. It made popular those oval stickers with OBX printed.
2. It is like Ocean City, "but boring," said my brother when he was 13.
3. It contains a town named Duck
4. It is, in my head, a town made of sand dunes. It's totally off the grid.
5. To get there, take 95 to 64 E and so forth.

Driving south was like going forward in time. I watched the seasons change. 64 was the first road with any green on it (interstate 95 does not support life). It was a very gray, foggy day. Foreboding. On the bridge near Newport News, I saw very evil looking fog. You know, when the fog isn't an even cloud but smoky and organic. Like the illustrations in Scary Stories.

One similarity between Ocean City and the Outer Banks is the road leading there. Very unimportant-feeling, through small fields and ranch houses, and then an abrupt transition into a beach town. One difference is the dismal number of themed mini golf courses in OBX. I only saw one. There also is no boardwalk, and that means there are no henna tattoo stalls or arcades or seagulls fighting bitterly over discarded french fries.

But OBX does have some beautiful beach houses. A nice place to visit, even on a wet, gray day. Route 12 runs north-south. I drove north, through creepy green foliage, past lots of white SUVs, into a state park that said "4 Wheel Drive ONLY." Then I turned around.

I stayed at the Cavalier Motel.





Recommended. Really sweet inside. I met a mother staying next door with her two kids and had the opportunity to tell my first lie of the trip.

Her: So where are you guys from?

Oh really! You guys. Why can't people fathom a young woman traveling alone? I talked to myself and calmed down. She saw me trying to unwedge my jacket from the immense pile of crap in my car--she probably thought one person wouldn't need so much. Indeed. But I lied anyway because I never did meet those two kids of hers.

Me: Oh, we're from Maryland and Florida.
Her: And you met here?
Me: No, we met in Florida.
Her: You guys are on spring break, eh?
Me: It's complicated. I'm on spring break but he's not.
Her: I see.
Me: Yeah, it's hard to say goodbye.

What? And then I had that Boyz 2 Men song in my head for the next 40 minutes. I walked on the beach, very pleased that my feet were warm in my new Smartwool socks. I tried to think of what my purpose for this trip is. I also thought if I need a name. So far I have "Self Reliance '09" and "Quest for Dignity," and I know it doesn't make sense but it sounds good, right? But I couldn't decide on a name, and I was distracted by two seashells I found. Below is a picture of my feet and the ground, but the seashells I found are not pictured.



The beach is comforting, and here's why. You think of the ocean as alive, not as like a fragile ecosystem, but as a sentient being. Maybe an animal. It has moods, it slaps the ground and washes things up. And it really doesn't give a shit about you, in any way. This is comforting.

Staircases on the beach are absurd and great. They don't fit in, at all, and they're hulking and rigid and measured. No worn path in the ground--we need 12 stairs of equal size. Seeing a row of them really tickled me.

And here's a stupid self-picture. Not the last, I hope!!!!!



I like motels. I like a private space. I like HBO and I like not having to clean up when I leave. I ate a grapefruit and watched Terminator 2. Such a good movie, really. Though if you dissect it too much it doesn't make sense--how does the T-1000 work? He's liquid, but he's a robot? My frail human mind cannot take it. Also I love the part where Arnold says, "Now I know why you cry" and then is lowered dramatically into a vat of molten metal. Mark my words, I will go out that way.

I have pictures but I haven't yet figured out how to get them off my camera.